Every Waking Moment (3 page)

DEVIN HILLIS
crossed the half-full parking lot at Heritage Acres Funeral Home, Mortuary, and Cemetery and walked up the stone pathway of remembrance, with names carved into rocks along the wall, past the finely manicured lawn and rose garden, and into the main building. A receptionist greeted him warmly and asked if he was there for the Garrity gathering, and he nodded.

The service was nearing the end when he took a seat at the back of the small auditorium. The officiating pastor wore a black robe and sonorously spoke of the life of the departed as if he did not know the man well. Vague references to “the family” and his life as a “devoted father and husband.” He mentioned the man’s wife, but when he used her name, it sounded stiff, as if he were reading a cue card. He concluded with verses from the book of John
 
—the story of Lazarus being raised from the dead.

“In what must have echoed in the heart of our Lord, he says to the sister of Lazarus, ‘I am the resurrection and the life. The one who believes in me will live, even though they die; and whoever lives by believing in me will never die. Do you believe this?’”

He looked at the crowd. “Jesus asked this of Martha and I
ask it of you today. Do you believe this?” He looked strategically and dramatically about the room.“Your husband, your father, your grandfather believed this, and on the authority of God’s Word I tell you, he is not here but is at this very moment in the presence of his Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. And he is more alive now than ever.”

Sniffles and soft sobs and nods of agreement. The man prayed. Devin shifted in his seat and glanced at his watch.

Then the lights dimmed and Devin held his breath as the screen above the casket came to life with words listing the birth and death dates of Martin Garrity. The music was a sparse mixture of piano and orchestral instrumentation that sounded like a Thomas Newman sound track. It evoked emotion but not too much. The plaintive tune had been composed and performed by his videographer and musical jack-of-all-trades, Jonah Verwer, and perfectly set the mood. The screen looked a little washed-out because the curtains on the right weren’t closed all the way. It was all Devin could do not to stand and hold them together, but he kept his seat, transfixed by the scene he had imagined.

Music up. Screen dark. Garrity voice-over.

Tight shot of Garrity’s face.

Still-shot photo of Garrity’s parents.

Photo of brothers at the swimming hole.

Tight shot of photo of brother.

Tight shot of Garrity speaking, smiling.

The congregation laughed and exchanged glances as the image of Garrity lingered on the screen, smiling, wet-eyed, remembering his brother. The pause was perfectly timed.

As the viewers settled, Garrity’s wedding picture flashed on the screen, and just as Devin had imagined, congregants glanced at the man’s widow, then back, as if drawn by some unseen director.

Garrity voice-over.

Cut to still shot of wedding ceremony/eating cake.

Garrity tight shot.

Still shot of yearbook picture.

An audible “Awwww” rose, mostly from women. People wiped at their eyes. Devin took it all in. It was one of those moments he could predict as they shot the video. The lighting, the crisp speech, the lines in the man’s face, the timbre of his voice. Devin had chills as they filmed that day and had known exactly how to put it together. Now, he had chills experiencing the emotion of the room. It was a holy moment, the fruition of piecing together an old man’s disparate memories.

When the music swelled at the end and the frame froze on Garrity’s face, smiling and happy with the memories he had divulged, it was perfection. There was nothing left to say but good-bye. The family filed past the casket one final time with the still frame of the man on the screen above.

Devin rose from his seat and walked into the hallway, wiping tears. Tears celebrating the connection between life and art and how such things penetrated the soul. He had made a connection with the old man and had called from him something lasting, something of beauty. The perfect benediction. Martin Garrity had been here, had walked the earth, had a voice, had a story. His heart beat with love and concern, and that truth could be played over and over.

He checked his watch again and stood aside as mourners exited, smiling at cousins and distant relatives. A door opened and one of Garrity’s sons moved toward the men’s room. Devin followed and waited at the sink, washing his hands twice.

“Devin,” the man said, glancing at him. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“I slipped in toward the end of the service. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“That video . . .” He shook his head. “That was incredible. You captured him perfectly. The photos and music and him talking about his faith . . . My mother will talk about that for the rest of her life.”

Devin beamed. “That was my hope. I knew the spiritual component was especially important to him. I couldn’t be happier. It all worked so well.”

The man dried his hands and shook Devin’s. Then an awkward pause. Devin reached for the door, then turned. “I know this is a really bad time to talk about payment . . .”

“Yes, it is.”

“I didn’t do this for the money. That’s not what
 
—”

“My understanding was that you were making a documentary over at Desert Gardens.”

“Yes, that’s how I met your father. And when I saw him deteriorate, I thought we could use some of the footage . . .”

“To make a little money.”

“No. It’s not like that. But your father and I had an agreement.” He left it there.

The man frowned. “You’ll be paid, Devin. The death benefit from his company has been filed. My mother will use that to reimburse you.”

Devin opened his mouth to speak again but decided against it. He opened the door and the man walked past him.

“You did an excellent job,” he said.

Devin nodded and glanced at his watch.

THE DAYROOM WAS A QUIET
and secluded spot toward the north end of the building, down a long, tiled hallway. Across the hall was a room with a large-screen television and areas to park wheelchairs for “exercise” sessions. Pristine yoga mats were still in plastic and equally pristine dumbbells languished. Lining an end table by the television were dusty videos with covers featuring smiling octogenarians.
Strengthening the Core
,
Easy Elderly Pilates
,
Jane Fonda’s Low-Impact Aerobic Workout
,
Move What You Can
 
—all in a similar state of neglect. There was no treadmill, but three exercise bikes sat idle by the large window.

Etched into the glass wall at the entrance to the dayroom on the opposite side of the hall was a mountain scene that rose like Everest. Trees with towering boughs spread above, inspiring, almost breathtaking in their grandeur and artistry. The old woman who was pushed past it didn’t seem to notice.

The door was heavy and clunked when Treha tugged at it, making it open automatically. At eye level on the door, easily visible to anyone in a sitting position, was a quotation by Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Treha waited for the door to fully open, then pushed the woman through, her shoelaces clicking. A fireplace with an oak mantel centered the room. It was flanked by two six-by-six-foot windows that looked out on the expansive lawn and an iron fence that surrounded the acreage. A flagpole at the far end of the property rose to heights that suggested the need for a beacon on top to warn incoming planes. The huge American flag that usually hung limp waved and flapped in the stiff breeze, rippling and fluttering.

Along the walls ran bench-like structures for larger meetings. They were empty now, but two ladies sat beside each other at a long table at the end of the room, choosing edge pieces from a puzzle box and speaking loudly, engaging in the conversation with grunts and chuckles and bodily noises forgiven without asking. One was Miss Madalyn, the one called the Opera Singer, and the other was a newer resident Treha hadn’t met. On the other side of the room sat Dr. Crenshaw looking out the window, staring at the golf course grass
 
—as if he, too, longed to be planted. He held a Bible on one knee and a folded newspaper on the other, and when Treha walked inside, he smiled and nodded and turned back to the view.

Treha maneuvered Ardeth’s wheelchair safely up to the table, then took one of the woman’s hands and rested it on top. She did the same for the other, and the skin on the woman’s arms sagged, bearing the telltale flaking, cracking, and splotching of too many summers. Limp and compliant, she kept her arms exactly where Treha placed them as she stared at the wall.

Treha felt neither hope nor despair but something wedged
between. This was her job now, her calling. A resolution to life, as if she were scrubbing dishes or sweeping a floor she had promised to finish. She took short steps from one side of the table to the other, pulled out a chair, and sat. She placed her hands on the table, her index fingers nearly touching Ardeth’s. The comparison was startling. On one side were wrinkled and blemished hands. On the other was clear, smooth skin. The old woman’s nails were polished, but Treha’s were cut to the quick, not clipped evenly but jagged and rough.

Treha closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she opened them, her eyes shifted and reset, the involuntary movement of her life. Walls and floors blurring and leaning. A vibration that shuddered through nerve endings. Then the swaying and quick jump, the return of a typewriter carriage in her head.

She waited, closed her eyes again, shook her head slightly, and looked up. Still there. Still moving. But the room settled as she swayed to compensate. The eyes of the old woman were clouded, barricades of age and confusion, but she knew that behind the cloud were the words. Treha could feel them even if they couldn’t be seen. Words floating, disembodied, perhaps only unformed letters and memories drifting like smoke.

Treha searched the old woman’s eyes and saw a chasm of darkness, a shadowed veil suspended between the inner, unseen world and the self-evident one. She lifted a finger, and then her hand hovered over the wrinkled one.

There was no jolt of electricity, no sound or feeling other than the meeting of skin. But something happened. There was a reaching, a leaning response from the old woman’s body, moving closer.

Treha sat forward and placed both hands on Ardeth’s. The
ladies had quieted their chattering as if they could sense what was happening. Dr. Crenshaw turned his chair toward them.

“Mrs. Ardeth,” Treha whispered. A pause. A stroke of the hand. She rubbed the woman’s wrist as her head continued its movement. And then came a loosening of the muscles in the woman’s arms and color moving through the pallor. Scales falling.

“My name is Treha,” she said.

She let the words hang between them and leaned forward, closer, to see the woman’s eyes, to see the storm that would release the rain.

“What is she doing?” the son-in-law said, his voice reflected by the glass wall with towering trees. Treha stared, eerily transfixed, as if preparing an experiment or to read the woman’s fortune. “And why is she shaking her head like that?”

“She has a condition called nystagmus,” Miriam said. “It’s involuntary. She can’t help it. She compensates by moving her head so the room doesn’t spin.”

The old woman’s daughter glanced at the fireplace, the picture frames and blown glass and snow globes arranged on the mantel. She crossed her arms.

Miriam stood transfixed by the girl. “Treha has a gift.”

“What do you mean?”

“An ability to . . . connect. I’m not sure what else to call it.”

“She stared at the floor the whole time she was in the room,” the man said. “I’d hardly call that a gift.”

“She’s unusual. I’ll admit that.”

“She looks like she can’t even take care of herself. How can she possibly take care of others?”

“I don’t like her,” the daughter said.

“Treha is a very private person, as you can tell. I know more about her than most, but I still only know a little.”

“What is she doing?” the daughter said. “Is she massaging her? Some kind of physical therapy?”

Miriam turned. “You and I think of communication as words and nonverbal signals. Stimulus given and received. But your mother is a labyrinth. A closed system. She’s unable to break through the walls in her mind, and the longer she stays closed, the thicker the walls get.”

“So you’re saying she’ll never come back to us? You haven’t even evaluated her.”

“I asked Treha to speak with your mother because she has keys to the locks. I’ve never seen anything like her.”

“She’s saying something,” the woman said. “What is she saying?”

“Don’t go inside yet. Let her work.”

“I don’t like this.”

The husband stepped beside his wife and placed a hand on her shoulder. “We should leave.”

“Give her just a moment,” Miriam said.

“What if she upsets Mother? She gets uncomfortable in strange places. She’ll never forgive me.”

Miriam faced the glass. “I’ll have Treha stop if you’d like.”

The daughter wrung her hands and narrowed her gaze. “Yes, that’s what I want. I want my mother out of there and I don’t want her
 
—”

“Wait,” the man said. “Honey, look.”